


The Haze of an All-White Sky

by thequeergiraffe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Open to Interpretation, Part of the "Poor John" series I seem to be perpetually writing, Post-Reichenbach, Rough Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment John was there, clutching Sherlock's wrist, the skin beneath his fingers cold and bloodless. The next he was lying in the street; Sherlock had jumped, jumped, and he needed to get up, get to him, oh God he had to get up. He blinked: he was in the hospital, dressed in a flimsy backless gown, his temple smarting and his vision blurred. Time was like a tide, rolling him forward, dragging him away. Carrying him along.</p><p>Time finally settled itself as the sky went dark. London glittered like a secret universe outside John's cab window. He'd been cleared to go home (home? without Sherlock?) and sent back out into a world that had somehow, astonishingly, not come to a standstill. John blinked at the people in the street. Didn't they know? Didn't they realize they'd been robbed of something that could never be replaced?</p><p>Home was a sobbing landlady, a pot of cold tea, and a million reminders of why the flat was suddenly so quiet.<br/>---<br/>COMPLETE & PROOFED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haze of an All-White Sky

Sherlock Holmes leapt from the roof of St. Bart's hospital early in the afternoon, the sky still a white backdrop to the gray of London's jagged skyline. The rest of the day, for John Watson, refused to proceed the way a day ought: with time moving in a neat, linear direction. One moment he was there, clutching Sherlock's wrist, the skin beneath his fingers cold and bloodless. The next he was lying in the street; Sherlock had jumped, jumped, and he needed to get up, get to him, oh God he had to get up. He blinked: he was in the hospital, dressed in a flimsy backless gown, his temple smarting and his vision blurred. Time was like a tide, rolling him forward, dragging him away. Carrying him along.

Time finally settled itself as the sky went dark. London glittered like a secret universe outside John's cab window. He'd been cleared to go home (home? without Sherlock?) and sent back out into a world that had somehow, astonishingly, not come to a standstill. John blinked at the people in the street. Didn't they know? Didn't they realize they'd been robbed of something that could never be replaced?

Home was a sobbing landlady, a pot of cold tea, and a million reminders of why the flat was suddenly so  _quiet_.

John knew it was stupid,  _knew_ it was a bad idea, but he slipped into Sherlock's bed and cried himself raw. Then he sat up, wiped the evidence of his grief from his face, and swallowed two small pills dry. He didn't feel bad about it; the hospital had given him those pills, said he'd need something to 'take the edge off'. They'd been right, of course. He let the drugs settle over him, into him, savoring- in some idle, distant way- the heaviness they lent to his bones. They made him feel solid. Lying back against the pillow, he shut his eyes and tried not to imagine Sherlock, Sherlock's blood all over the pavement and his face smeared with it and the cold banality of the morgue surrounding him now, alone down there in that awful place with only corpses for company.

 _His last best friend was a skull, don't forget_ , John thought, and he made a sound that was meant to be a laugh but sounded more like a sob. The tears came again. He drifted in them, drifted into darkness, into oblivion, where Sherlock dwelt now.

\---

John felt him. The weight of him on the edge of the bed, the warmth of his hand on John's cheek. Things were still vague, the drugs lending a fog to the scene, but John knew it was him. He rolled his eyes open slowly, amazed at their sudden weight and unwillingness to cooperate.

"Shh," Sherlock whispered, still stroking his cheek. "Go back to sleep. None of this real."

Groggily, John mumbled, "The part where you died, or the part where you came back?"

Sherlock didn't answer. The darkness was absolute. John sat up, with effort, and touched Sherlock's arm. "Why?" There were so many questions hidden inside that one word, so many things that, in his current state, John simply couldn't articulate. But again Sherlock was silent, only taking John's hand in his and running his thumb over the veins on his wrist.

After a very long moment (in which John had drifted back into sleep twice and now found his head lying carefully on Sherlock's thin shoulder) Sherlock whispered: "If this were a dream, and you could do anything you'd like, what would you do?"

"I'd ask you not to leave me," John said at once, his voice thick with sleep and drugs and tears.

With a sigh, Sherlock brought his hand up and petted John's hair. "Imagine that you knew I was leaving, possibly forever, and this was our only chance at a proper goodbye."

John yawned and tucked his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing in the warm smell of his own soap on Sherlock's skin. "What does it matter? It's too late. You're dead."

Sherlock's voice was soft. "Pretend I'm not. Just for tonight."

"And I still have to say goodbye?"

"Yes."

"Oh." John sat up a little, pressing his hands to Sherlock's shoulders for support. "Then I guess I'd say…that I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" John could  _hear_ the look on his face, those pale eyes wide and curious, the eyebrows pulled inwards in confusion.

"Mm." John dropped his head back to Sherlock's shoulder. For an apparition, a dream, a ghost…Sherlock felt surprisingly real and whole in his arms. By contrast, John felt that he himself had lost some of his completeness, that perhaps he'd gone translucent and impermanent in the night. He had become less.

Sherlock brought his mouth to John's ear, his breath hot and tickling. "Why would  _you_ be sorry?"

His face still buried in Sherlock's neck, John whispered, "Because I couldn't save you. Not this time. Not from yourself." He felt his eyes stinging again and brushed at them impatiently before dropping his hand back to Sherlock's shoulder. "I tried, Sherlock. I did. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock kissed him- first his bandaged temple, then his cheek (rough with stubble), and finally the corner of his downturned mouth. "I'm not a man of sentiment and pretty words," Sherlock said against his mouth. "Forgive me."

A blur of time, a regression to the white of afternoon. Sherlock was kissing him in a manner that could be described as reckless, his full lips wet and everywhere, everywhere, making John dizzy. The room was full of white noise and damp heat. "Sherlock." John tried to swim up through the daze of chemicals and confusion and get a grasp on time; he didn't want it to start slipping away again, he wanted to be in this moment, with Sherlock's warm breath fluttering down his neck and his hands, oh God those slim pale hands, sliding under his tee-shirt. But it was difficult, too difficult. One moment Sherlock was pulling John's shirt up over his head and kissing his scar with careful little sighs, the next John was outside St. Bart's, staring up at the white sky, at the dark outline of his best friend on the edge of his last fall.

"Why-" he began, but he blinked and the bedroom was back, impossibly dark, Sherlock's lean length stretched along his body. His clothes, John discovered, had found their way to the floor.  _I'm back, I'm back_ , John thought, a rush of fierce longing flooding him unexpectedly. He found Sherlock's face in the dark and kissed it carefully, trailing his lips across the long lashes, the haughty cheekbones, the strong dip of his cupid's bow. He wanted Sherlock with an intensity he'd never before felt in his life, and the sweeping hunger that filled him near to the brim swept away some of the haziness. Sherlock's chest felt warm and real and solid beneath his hands. It was a dream, John knew it was a dream, but it was a  _good_ dream and he wanted to believe in it, if only for the night.

Sherlock sat up, straddled across John's hips. He seemed suddenly hesitant, unsure of what to do next, though his body seemed to have some faint idea as he rocked back and forth gently. John licked his lips.  _The Virgin._ He was in no shape to be a gentle guide, not right now. Sherlock's ghost would just have to acclimate quickly. Clumsily, he grasped Sherlock's hips and grunted: "Up." Sherlock obeyed wordlessly; John wished he could see his face. Too dark. He closed his eyes and for just a second he and Sherlock were standing in an ally, the cold metal of their shared handcuffs chafing their wrists, adrenaline making them not care. He opened his eyes; Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, John behind him, kissing his neck, stroking his stomach. Hot skin; tiny rivulets of sweat trailing down Sherlock's chest, dampening John's fingers. It was easier, then. John got time solidly beneath his feet and slid into Sherlock as if he were made to fit there.

Sherlock was gasping, groaning. His hands flew to the bed and John stooped, pressing his face into Sherlock's sweat-slick back, his hands pulling Sherlock's hips toward him with each thrust. He felt more like himself, like the fog had receded to the edges of his mind and all that existed, with perfect clarity, was Sherlock's shifting, shaking body against his own. John kissed Sherlock's spine, closed his eyes.

The hospital. Ill-fitting gown, starched sheets, sad-eyed nurses. The sting of antiseptic.

John opened his eyes. Hazy, all hazy again. He knew he was going to come but it all seemed so distant, like a stranger had taken over his desperate, aching limbs and he had climbed up into his mind and dreamed the impossible. Sherlock was dead and some dreary replica had found its way underneath him, moaning in Sherlock's voice, smelling of Sherlock's skin and John's soap, the soap he'd told Sherlock not to use a thousand times but did the man ever listen, even when his life depended on it?

Sherlock made a raspy, hissing noise and tensed, breathless as he called: "Please, please, ah, not so-" John pushed his face down into the sheets and ignored him, grabbing a great handful of Sherlock's hair as he came with a shuddering gasp. Dizzy; the world drifted; time cracked at the seams. Moriarty was in his arms, the bomb under his coat pressing between them like a promise. Groaning, John scrambled away, expecting wet tile beneath him. Instead he fell off the bed in an unceremonious lump, the impenetrable darkness filled with his and Sherlock's breaths. He touched his hand to the bandage on his temple; blood met his fingers with a sticky defiance. He was so dizzy, and so tired…

"Come on." Sherlock's arms around him, pulling him up, getting him dressed. He fell into bed and Sherlock tucked the blanket around him, kissing his cheek softly. "Sleep now." He stood, but he didn't go. John's eyes closed. Time stayed constant. Each of Sherlock's breaths was a second in which they both still existed. Whole. Real.

John slept. Sherlock's voice echoed down into the well of his subconscious: "Good-bye, John."

\---

John woke with a dry throat and a terrible headache. He didn't open his eyes, not right away. Something felt off.

Realization came over him like the chill of an autumn evening. He was not in his own bed, he was in Sherlock's. And Sherlock was…

That was why the flat was quiet, and the sheets unfamiliar. And that dream…

He opened his eyes and sat straight up. Nothing in the room suggested Sherlock had been there. With a strange fluttering in his chest, he checked his body for signs of use: no scratches graced his skin, no bruises from demanding fingers. He had dreamed it, then. The drugs…he knew the side effects well enough, even if he'd never taken them before. Vivid dreams. That, and shock…

Stiffly, John swung his feet around and set them on the cold floor. He was alone. He was in love with a dead man, and he was alone.

John put his face in his hands and wept.


End file.
